


In Between Days

by tbazzsnow (Artescapri)



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: At the Bunces' home, Boyfriends, Boys In Love, Brown Leather Jacket, Clothes Shopping, Curry, Kisses, M/M, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Post canon, Priya is so over this, Protective Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Queer Eye for the dragon wings and tail guy, Simon is in a funk, Simon you're wearing jeans, Worried Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Yes it’s THE brown leather jacket from the Wayward Son art, a day in Hounslow, apologies for implied insults to British Rail, emotional wellness check is metered by insults, fluff and a bit of angst, there is enough butter stop worrying Simon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-02-04 10:07:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18602347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artescapri/pseuds/tbazzsnow
Summary: Baz visits Simon at Penny's on the weekends during his last term at Watford. Simon isn't himself and Baz is focused on distracting him. Soft boys, protective Baz, clothes shopping, curry, and conversation. A fic written for mudblood428 and the prompt she liked: "being unable to open their eyes for a few moments after a kiss."





	In Between Days

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mudblood428](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mudblood428/gifts).



In Between Days

 

**Baz**

It’s the fourth week in a row I’ve invited myself to the Bunces’ home. I can’t spend my weekends alone at Watford when I know Simon is just a few hours’ drive away. 

It’s not like we don’t talk on mobile. Well, I talk. Simon mostly gives me monosyllabic answers and drawn out silences. But I get to hear the sound of his breathing and that calms me. I know it calms him too. I talk to him until he falls asleep most nights, until I can hear his breath puff in and out through the speaker (mouth breather).

Bunce usually takes his mobile from him once he’s asleep and then she tells me what Simon doesn’t: how he’s sleeping, if he’s eating enough. What goes on during his days with her, when I’m sitting in class—desperate to reach out to him—but forcing myself to translate interminably long passages of Greek for the Minotaur instead.  

Father has let me have the Jag at Watford this term. I asked him for it near the end of the holiday break. He heard me out, when I made my request for it, his forehead creasing in concentration. “He’ll be alright with Martin and Penelope, Basilton. I’ve no doubt about that. And Wellby will make sure to check in on him as well. He’s awfully fond of the boy.” 

“So am I.” My words came out as a whisper. It was the first time I’d been so open to Father about my feelings for Simon. I don’t regret saying it, no matter what his response. 

It’s true and I’m done hiding. 

Father’s hand gripped my shoulder briefly. “I know.” 

My eyes darted to his. His expression eased and a hint of a smile quirked his lips. “I may be old but I’m not blind. It wasn’t hard to puzzle it out at Christmas.” 

I could feel my ears go warm as what little blood I have rushed into them. I opened my mouth to make some retort but I couldn’t. I wouldn’t deny it. 

And he didn’t seem perturbed by it. 

“And if I had been too thick to notice then, it certainly wouldn’t have escaped my attention now. You’ve spent practically every moment driving down there to see him.” Father waved a hand at me, as if to forestall any comment on my part.  “It’s understandable. The boy has been through the unthinkable.” He shook his head and his hand made an involuntary movement towards the inside pocket of his suit jacket, where he keeps his wand. “Simon needs the companionship of those who care for him.” 

My mouth went dry. This was not the direction I expected this conversation to go. I should have known better than to underestimate Father’s powers of perception. He’s sharp and Daphne’s a natural empath, so I suppose it was inevitable that they would figure it out. I swallowed in an attempt to force some moisture to my mouth. “So, you’ll let me have the car?” I needed to get back to the point at hand.  I wasn’t sure I could handle the intensity of a heart to heart at that moment.

Father nodded. “Yes, yes. You’ll try to figure out some other way to get to him if I say no.” There was an unexpected glint in his eye as he spoke. He must have appreciated my perplexed expression because he raised his eyebrows, shoved his hands in his pockets, and huffed an unanticipated laugh. “You know your mother and I started dating at Watford.”  
  
This was a startling topic. I’ve rarely heard him speak of those times. Most of my information has come from Fiona. 

He kept speaking, eyes gazing off in the distance somewhere over my left shoulder. “Your mother would always come here for the summer and I would be in Suffolk.” His eyes darted to me again. “I know every possible route from the estate there to our door here.” He huffed again. “I can’t tell you how many times I asked my father to borrow the car so I could save time on travel and have more time to spend with Natasha.” He pulled a key fob out of his pocket and dangled it in the air between us. “I’ll not make you endure the vagaries of the British rail system the way he made me.” 

I took the keys from his hand. “Thank you.” I meant it. I was in a state of shock, honestly. He’d been utterly nonchalant about my feelings for Simon, uncharacteristically forthcoming about his past with my mother, and so unexpectedly kind about it all. I put out my hand to shake his and he gripped it with both of his, for longer than usual. 

“Don’t park it at the lot near the Wood. The snow devils are hell this time of year. The last thing you need is them messing about with the motor or pelting the car with chestnuts. If the Mage’s Men could park off the Courtyard so can you. Mitali should have no problem with it.”

Headmistress Bunce has had no problem with my car or my mobile. She reversed the technology ban as soon as she set foot on the grounds. Considering she had provided Bunce with a contraband mobile during eighth year, this did not come as much of a surprise to me. 

I grab the key fob from my desk and make my way down the steps of Mummers. The snow is swirling with the wind but there’s not much to speak of on the car yet. It’s early still. It might be thick by the time I get back tonight.

I’ll have to come back tonight. The Bunces’ home is bursting at the seams with people. There’s no place for me to stay when I go. Simon theoretically sleeps on a cot in Bunce’s room though I think she lets him crash on her bed more often than not. She complains about his wings enough. 

I’m envious. 

I know Bunce and Simon are just friends. I’m not bothered about _that_. I just miss his presence in our room so much that it hurts. There’s an ache in my chest when I look at his empty bed. 

I’ve left it all just as it was the day he bolted to come find me. Dirty trackies in the corner, an untidy pile of books on his desk, his wand on the table, his bed a rumpled mess.

Slightly more rumpled now because I’ve been curling up on it, inhaling the faint smoky scent of him it still holds. 

The motorway is fairly empty this time of day. I’m not a morning person by nature but the earlier I get on the road the longer I can spend with Simon. I’ll forego a few hours’ sleep if I can spend those hours with him instead. 

I texted Bunce before I left, so she’ll know to expect me. She’ll make sure Simon’s up and about.  
  
He used to always be up with the sun, the bloody git, blundering around the room. I’d wake up to the sound of him only to huff and groan in mock annoyance. I’d watch him from under my half-closed eyelids as he riffled through his papers, hunted under the bed for his shoes, shrugged on his uniform jacket.

Simon’s not such an early riser anymore. Bunce says he still wakes with the sun, on the nights he gets any sleep, but he’s not up and about. Not until she harangues him for a bit. Or more than a bit. She usually manages to chivvy him to the kitchen for breakfast but then he’s a lump on the sofa for hours after. 

Thousand-yard stares. Long stretches of immobility on the Bunces lumpy sofa. Silent walks with me. 

He was never one for many words, but in the time since the Mage’s death he’s been painfully laconic in his speech. 

I know he’s still in shock. It’s so much to take in. Simon had so little to begin with and now he’s lost that. The Mage. Ebb. Wellbelove. His magic. Watford. 

He’s still got Bunce. 

And now he has me, for whatever that’s worth. 

It breaks my heart that his world shattered, just as my fondest dream finally came true. I’m not sure I’m a worthy trade.

I rap on the Bunces’ front door when I arrive. The snow is thicker here, flakes swirling around my head as I stamp my feet to stay warm. The door flies open and Priya rolls her eyes at the sight of me. “Oh, it’s you.” 

I follow her in, relishing the warmth that washes over me. Headmistress Bunce is seated at the kitchen table, tapping away at her laptop. “Basilton.” 

“Headmistress.” She usually makes the trip home early Friday afternoon and heads back to Watford at first light on Mondays. 

“They’re in Penny’s room. You know the way.” 

I give a warning knock on the door before I lean in to take a look. Bunce is seated at her desk but her chair is spun around to face Simon. He’s sprawled out on his stomach, wings nestled against his back, shirtless as usual. 

“Baz.” Bunce greets me first, but Simon is already sitting up as she speaks. 

I drop down on the bed next to him and press a gentle kiss to his temple. “Good morning, love.” 

Bunce, as expected, snorts. “I’ll leave you two for a bit, shall I?” She ruffles Simon’s hair as she walks past us and then give me quick squeeze on the shoulder. Our eyes meet and she shrugs. 

Not much has changed then. 

Simon ends up on his side, head in my lap, as I lean against the wall by Bunce’s bed, my fingers sliding through his curls. I tell him about my week, all the stupid, useless, trivial things that happened at Watford since I’ve seen him last. Anything to distract him. 

“Dev’s been sick this week so Niall tried to use **_“snug as a bug in a rug”_** to tuck the blankets around him when he was shivering and damn near strangled him instead. They got so damn tight around him it took both of us to get him unraveled.”

Simon tilts his head back to look at me. “You didn’t come up with a spell?” 

There’s a glint in his eye, one I haven’t seen in far too long. I’m so desperate for it, I must be imagining it’s there.“I wasn’t there when he cast it. Niall tried something else but that just unwound the weave of the blanket and he couldn’t spell that away. Left Dev wrapped up like Frodo after the spider got to him. That’s when he shouted for me.” 

Simon blinks up at me. “You didn’t use an **_“as you were”_**?

I’m not imagining it. Even his tone of voice is sharper. 

I shake my head, focused on keeping my own voice calm and steady. “No, that would have just taken him back to the too-tight blankets. You know you can’t keep doing **_“as you were”_** over and over, once you’ve done another spell. It would just go back and forth between the two most recent ones.” 

“How’d you get him free?” This is perhaps the most interest he’s shown in happenings at Watford since I returned to school. I can’t help the sharp flare of hope that shoots through me. 

I keep my voice light. “I used scissors.” 

“You did not!” 

“I had to. I couldn’t think of a spell to put the blanket back together and every time I pulled on a strand it just got tighter.” 

“I’ve never known you to be at a loss for a spell.” Simon narrows his eyes at me. I know this look. It usually presages him jutting his chin out in that delectable way of his. “Why didn’t you use **_“into thin air”_**? 

Why the bollocks hadn’t I used that?  Hadn’t even thought of it. I had just snatched the scissors from Dev’s desk and proceeded to decimate the shreds of the blanket. Perhaps the darkening shade of Dev’s face had alarmed me too much. 

I feel quite mortified about it now. Blast Niall. He didn’t think of it either. 

I still can’t tamp down the rush of warmth that comes over me from Simon’s words though. Not only for his faith in me, or for his immediate ability to think of an appropriate spell for the situation, but also for that brief spark of the old Simon. That’s progress, isn’t it? 

It’s more than I’ve seen so far. 

I shrug. It’s a terrible habit I’ve undoubtedly picked up from him. “I’m not infallible. Dev took Niall’s blanket in recompense and made him deal with the mess we left behind. Now they’ve been fighting over how warm to keep the room since Dev’s got the only blanket.” 

A flicker of a smile crosses Simon’s face. “If it was you, I’d have just made you share.” 

My heart beats faster. I think I might swoon at his words, it’s not beneath me. 

I don’t want to disrupt the moment though, so all I do is run my fingertip along his jawline. “You’re warm enough I wouldn’t have to share it.” 

“Prick.”

“Mouth breather.”

I force myself to keep my breaths even. I can’t recall the last time he insulted me like this. 

I’ve missed it. 

Simon stares up at me silently and I trace the freckles along his cheek until I reach the one I’ve loved for years. I press my finger to it, keeping my tone casual as I speak. “Are you going to be a lazy bones and stay in bed all day, Snow? I thought we had plans to take you shopping today.” 

I attempt to devise some reason to get him out of the house each time I come. Food, shopping, a film. I’ve not been too successful so far but I think at this point even he’s sick of wearing Premal’s old clothes. 

I get him up and rummage around the untidy pile of clothing at the foot of the bed until I find a shirt. I spell it on then spell his wings and tail invisible. I can’t do much about the awful track bottoms. Does no one in this family wear jeans? 

We’re definitely going to do something about the lack of them in Simon’s wardrobe today. 

We wander around the city center, drifting into shops, getting coffee and scones (of course we get scones). 

I eventually find an upscale men’s clothing store and drag Simon in. 

“This is too posh for me, Baz,” Simon hisses in my ear as I make my way to the shelves of jeans near the back.

“Nonsense. It’s about time you dressed in something other than chavvy track bottoms and Premal’s lurid tshirts.” I flick through the jeans, eyeing Simon as I do. He’s shorter than me but with a more solid build. 

At least he used to be. I’m not sure of his size anymore. He's lost weight since the end of last term. 

I won’t think about that right now. 

I find a few pairs that appear to be the right size. They may be a bit long but he can just cuff them. I toss the jeans at him and move on to the shirts. He trails behind me like a forlorn puppy. 

“Baz.” 

“Hmm?” I’m riffling through some fitted crew neck shirts that are velvety to the touch. These will do nicely.

Simon tugs at my sleeve. “Baz. I can’t afford any of this.”  

“You can actually, with your leprechaun gold, but that’s not relevant at the moment. I’ve got this. I promised to take you shopping and this is going on my account.” 

He looks as horror stricken as if I’d announced a nation-wide shortage of butter. “I can’t let you do that!” 

“Why the hell not?” 

“It’s too much money. I can’t have you buying me _clothes_.”

I put the shirts down and reach for his free hand. “Simon. I want to. I’m your boyfriend and I want to do this.” I step closer to him. “Let me do this for you, please?” 

He frowns at me, eyebrows drawn to the middle of his forehead. I squeeze his hand. “What’s this really about?” 

Simon’s eyes dart away and then return to me, the expression on his face harder to puzzle out now. “I just . . . I just don’t need all this.” He gestures with the arm holding the jeans and then rapidly clutches at them before they slide out of his grip. “I’m fine with what I’ve got. I can go to a thrift shop, find something in my size. You don’t have to do this.” 

It dawns on me then that he’s never done this. Simon’s never gone into a real shop, to buy new clothes. Not even an H&M or a Uniqlo. 

It’s all been hand-me-downs at the care homes or cheap thrift shop finds. Or the occasional Christmas gift from the Wellbeloves.

The only full set of new clothes he ever had were the uniforms at Watford. The ones he wore all the time.

The ones I gave him interminable amounts of grief over, back when I was just his prick of a roommate and insufferable nemesis. 

It makes me furious at the Mage all over again. Couldn’t he have taken Simon to a real store, to buy some nice clothes? Just once? 

I realize I’m standing here, staring at Simon, clutching his hand far too tightly. “I’m not doing it because I have to, Simon. I told you. I’m doing it because I want to. Because you deserve to have anything you need or want. New clothes. New shoes. A proper jacket. Whatever the fuck strikes your fancy, because by Crowley, why shouldn’t you?” 

He blinks at me. I step closer. “Come on now. I need to see how my terrible boyfriend’s arse looks in these jeans.” 

Simon flushes instantly, his expression rapidly shifting from serious to flustered. It’s adorable. “You can’t be serious, Baz.” 

“I’m deadly serious about clothing, Simon. I’d think you’d know that by now.” I can’t help but smile down at him. 

He huffs a laugh and I relax a little. “You’re fucking ridiculous about it, you wanker.” 

“Trust my judgement then, you fashion disaster. You’re a prime candidate for a complete Queer Eye makeover.” 

He actually grins at me. “Well, you’re queer enough to manage all that for me, yeah?” 

I am. Challenge accepted. 

We exit the shop an hour later, laden with bags. I’ve managed to find two pairs of jeans that are sinfully fitted to Simon’s form, an assortment of soft shirts that hug his muscled torso, one slim cashmere jumper that clings to his shoulders, and a brown leather jacket that nearly caused me to spontaneously combust in the shop. I’m delighted with the entire lot. 

A judicious use of **_“clothes make the man”_** in the dressing room allowed the clothing to appropriately accommodate his wings and tail. I’ll have to mention that spell to Bunce. 

I load our purchases into the car and find a curry shop for Simon. I linger over my kebabs, just drinking in the sight of him. The color has come back to his face, cheeks reddened by the brisk winter wind. He’s digging into his chicken tikka with a gusto that’s been sorely lacking the last few weeks. 

I feel a surge of satisfaction when he eyes the lonely kebab on my plate. “You going to eat that, Baz?” 

“I had considered it.” I don’t mean it. I ate more than enough samosas. I’ll put some of the Watford rats out of their misery later tonight.  
  
“Oh.” He shrugs and I can’t keep up the charade. 

“Of course, you can have it, you nightmare. I saved it for you.” 

Simon’s face lights up as he reaches for it. It’s the little things that give me hope that he’s making some progress. I know I can’t count on it every time. I know he’ll likely regress next week. But every little bit of improvement is a step in the right direction. 

We head back to Bunce’s place in the late afternoon. The days pass far too slowly at Watford and far too swiftly when I’m with Simon. I’ll need to leave soon, to make it back before the drawbridge goes up for the night. 

I make some perfunctory conversation with the Professors, indulge in a whispered exchange with Bunce while Simon hangs his new clothes in her closet, and then let Simon walk me to my car. I try to drag it out as long as I can, but the sun is sinking and I’ve got no choice but to leave now. 

The chill is more pronounced as the shadows lengthen. I can’t help the shiver that runs through me. Simon wraps his arms around my waist and I revel in his heat. Even now, with his magic extinguished, he still radiates warmth. It’s comforting, though I should be the one giving comfort rather than him. 

Simon rests his head on my shoulder and I bury my face in his hair, inhaling the scent of him. It’s not the smoky aroma that haunts my dreams. It’s fresh and green and holds the barest hint of that familiar fragrance.

I lightly brush my lips to his temple and he turns his face up to me, lifting his head from its resting place on my shoulder and touching his lips to mine. I hold my breath. I’ve not ventured to do more than lightly kiss his cheek or forehead, not wanting to push him, not now, not after everything. 

Simon presses closer, his lips firm and warm. And just like the first time we kissed, he takes the lead and moves his mouth, doing that thing with his jaw that leaves me breathless. 

My lips part and he deepens the kiss, his tongue sliding against my own. 

My heart is hammering in my chest, my pulse pounding in my ears. I’ve yearned for this, hungered for his touch, not daring to seek it for myself. I’ve been content with holding his hand, letting him rest his head in my lap, feeling the press of his shoulder against my own. 

I’m grateful for anything he’s willing to give me. 

My eyes have drifted closed as his touch heats my skin and his mouth moves against my own. I’ve missed this so very much. We may have only had two days’ worth of spectacular snogging, but Simon’s kisses have become more than just a craving to me. I need them. Like air or water. I don’t know how I’ve survived without them. 

I’d dreamed of this often enough through the years, fantasized about his lips on mine, his hand sliding up my back like it is now, his shoulders underneath my grip. 

The reality is far better than I’d ever hoped.

Simon pulls back and rests his forehead against mine.  Our breaths mingle, arms wrapped tightly around each other. I can’t seem to open my eyes. I know it’s not a dream, but part of me still expects it all to vanish if I do open them. 

It’s only when Simon’s hand slides up to tangle in my hair that I force myself to bring my gaze to his. The blue of his eyes is so close I can see the variegated shades that make the color so unique. There’s nothing ordinary about this boy in my arms. Not now. Not ever. 

“I’ll miss you.” His words are just a whisper but I can hear them clearly. 

“I’ll miss you too. I’ll call, every night.” My grip on him tightens. “I’ll be back next week.” 

“I want you to, but you don’t have to. I know you’ve got schoolwork to do.” 

I can’t help the laugh that escapes me. “I’ve no one to distract me during the week anymore. I’m so far ahead that I could take a week off and still not fall behind. It’s not as challenging, without Bunce there to goad me on.” I press a kiss to his forehead. “I’d rather be here with you, you know that.” 

Simon’s lips brush mine once more. “I’d rather have you here too.” 

I make it back to Watford just in time. The drawbridge goes up just as I reach Mummers. I take a shower, sort through my papers, read next week’s Political Science assignment. I wait until ten and then I dial Simon’s number. He answers on the second ring. 

“Hey.” 

“Hey.”

“I miss you already.”

“I miss you too.”

I listen to him breathe. Words aren’t necessary. It’s enough to know he’s there.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Fic title from The Cure song of the same name.
> 
> My thanks to BasicBathsheba for the brilliant tag suggestion "emotional wellness check is metered by insults"
> 
> Many thanks to BasicBathsheba, penpanoply and fight-surrender for their input on this fic.


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